Small Vignettes
by Silver Tallest
Summary: A collection of short stories, mostly E/C, from the prompts that people send me. Individual stories may very, but for the most part, accessible to everyone. I'll notify at the beginning of the story if the rating changes.
1. That which you mistake for madness

**This is just a collection of short stories from the prompts I receive on tumblr. If you have a prompt you want to read, send it my way!**

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A loud piercing cry of alarm filled Erik's humble abode. The siren's call alerted him to an intruder.

"Daroga…" Erik grumbled under his breath. He had been in the midst of reading a book of poetry, of love and longing, as he was convinced he was dying of such emotions, when the screaming sound interrupted him.

He snapped the book shut and strode over to his front door, to peer outside.

"If I told that great booby once, I told him one hundred times, do not bother me, I am dy-"

But what he spied was not the kind Persian, but the subject of his heart's affliction.

"-aae…" he finished in a whisper.

There she was. Christine Daae. Whom he had told her to leave with her beau. He even conducted a sweet little ceremony for them so he could witness her happiness. Her compassion had saved him, made him feel human, and yet here she was, rapping on his front door, as if she were stopping by for a cup of sugar.

"Erik…?" Came her sweet voice, timid and full of… something Erik could not put his finger on.

Two options gripped him; he could not answer, set up the facade he had already perished and have her leave him yet again. That would prove overly complicated. Or, the more reasonable option, he could simply open the door and see what she wanted.

Option one seemed far easier indeed.

He clutched the handle of his door and swallowed his anxiety, his throat feeling tight. He watched as she waited at the door, standing on tiptoes to see if she could spy any movement.

"Erik?" Her question was tinged with a hint of fear as her eyebrows knit together.

Oh, how _lovely_ she was.

Her shoulders heaved in a sigh as she looked sorrowfully at the door. Her fist raised once again to knock when Erik swung open the door with more force than he intended.

The pair stared at each other with wide, surprised eyes, unable to speak with the bubbling emotions that threatened to erupt.

Wordlessly, Erik gave a slight bow with his head and gestured for Christine to step inside with a sweep of his hand. She returned with a small nod and stepped inside, careful to wipe her feet before moving.

Erik ushered her into his sitting room, where he received her on the couch, or rather was she receiving him?

They both sat down simultaneously, avoiding eye contact with the other. Erik's mouth flapped open like a fish struggling to breathe.

"Tea," he finally managed to say, rising to his feet once again. "I shall go make us some tea."

Christine nodded, folding her hands in her lap and gazing quite intently on her fingers.

Erik scurried away from her, eager to stay in her presence, but needing to leave lest he suffocate on his emotions.

He placed his cast iron kettle on the stove and strummed his fingers impatiently against his arm.

"What does she want?" He asked of himself, trying to think. "Why is she here?" His nervous energy leaked out from every limb, and he tapped his foot, anxious to return, dreading conversation.

"She missed you," a quiet voice said from the doorframe of the kitchen.

Erik tensed and whipped around to find Christine shyly clutching the wood frame. His hands clawed reflexively at her interruption. Every bone in his body screamed at him to rush to her, to wrap his arms around her, to make her feel sheltered and secure, but it was not his place to do so.

He was not meant to have a happy ending.

His breathing was heavy, but snapped out of his hopefulness. "Do not be ridiculous, Christine." He turned his back to her to avoid her timid, yet fervent gaze and busied himself with a tin case full of loose leaf black tea. "You should not even be here. Why are you not with your young man, off singing high praises of the North in a blustery white-"

"Raoul left," she said quietly, taking a step closer to Erik. He kept his back to her all the same. "His deployment to the North Pole was unavoidable." Christine fiddled with her fingers as she searched for the words to explain her situation. "He begged me to accompany him, but I- that is to say, I could not-" she sighed, "I do not want to stop singing."

Erik turned toward her and listened intently to her plea as she continued. "He is afforded more freedom with his choices due to his family and his title, but I… I cannot ignore my music. It grounds me and yet, it makes me soar to levels I never thought I could reach." Christine gesticulated with her hands to convey her meaning, "It beckons my very soul, I cannot… I cannot ignore it because it threatens to consume me."

She looked pleadingly at Erik, begging him to understand her, but she could not hold his gaze very long. "I suppose I cannot articulate myself well enough," she mumbled, hugging her arms around herself, "I thought, perhaps, that you-"

"I do."

Christine smiled hopefully, but the hesitancy in Erik's voice froze her to her spot.

"-but…?"

"-but you should not be down here," he told her firmly. "You can sing your haunting melodies in the North, Christine. Show the world your heavenly voice filled with," his voice cracked ever so slightly, " _love_ for your boy. It would be enough to know you are happy and safe from the monsters that once terrorized you."

Her eyes were downcast once more and she hugged her arms closer to her body. "Yes, I love him," she stated, as though convincing herself that were true, "but that love is more of a comfortable love. The love for a playmate; for a friend." She looked up toward the ceiling with a wistful smile, "I suppose he really was my first love… But," she looked back to Erik, " _-music_ is my true love. He cannot give me that."

Erik straightened up to his full, intimidating height, his masked face unreadable. "Why are you here, Christine?"

She took a tentative step closer to him.

"I told you, I missed you. I miss the companion I once had whom I could bare my soul to and who would raise me to new heights I never dreamed possible."

"You miss a _lie_ ," he hissed, turning his back to her once again, unable to look at her. "Need I remind you that your _Ange d'musique_ is nothing more than a series of falsehoods I crafted? Deceptions that I lay so that I could-" his long hands balled up in fists, and he could not continue.

The kettle on the stove started to rumble from the internal bubbling.

"I am fully aware of your actions," Christine retorted, a bit more sharply than she had intended, "but that does not mean we cannot begin again." She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. Erik's entire body flinched, but he did not brush it away. "We can try again, Erik."

She stood expectantly for his response.

He remained silent.

"Erik? It doesn't have to be like-"

"You were supposed to kill everyone," he choked out, his voice strangely strangled. "You were supposed to kill me and everyone else. I _wanted_ you to kill me, to end this suffering I feel whenever your very presence is near me. The agony of knowing I could never be yours-"

Christine withdrew her hand as if it were burnt physically, and not just be the shame of his words. Erik gripped the edge of his countertop, tension coiling through his back.

"-it is more than I can bear. Do _not_ try and play more games with me, Christine. It will destroy me or, in the process, you as well."

Their pained silence was deafening. The teapot wavered a little dance on top of its flame, threatening and hot, when it finally began its scream.

Christine finally closed the gap between them and slipped her arms under Erik's in an embrace. He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move from the shock. She held him, pressing herself against his back, her arms not squeezing, but a secure hug.

"Did you not hear me? I miss you. We can try again, with no false pretenses. I want my friend and confident back, my Angel who did not judge me."

Tears streamed down Erik's face as his body slackened and relaxed. They pooled and collected inside his mask, trickling down under his chin.

"Christine, you must be suffering from a case of hysteria," he muttered, hurriedly dabbing at his eyes with his lithe fingers. "This is madness."

Her body weight shifted to lean against him more and sink against his form. Her head shook. "That which you mistake for madness is but an over-acuteness of the senses. I want to hear you, Erik. To feel you, to _see_ you."

A strangled cry croaked from Erik's throat as he gasped from her declaration. Christine released her hold on him and he slowly turned to her. She offered him a soft smile.

His eyes searched her face for any deception. When he saw none there, he swallowed the persistent lump in his throat.

"I suppose," he said cautiously, "we could attempt a... _proper_ courtship."

Christine's dainty hands slipped into Erik's long, gentle grip."Let us begin with a friendship first and foremost," she said with a sly smile.

"Yes, of course," Erik nodded hurriedly and the tops of his ears bloomed with red as he stared at their entwined hands.

"...Erik?"

He snapped to attention, not relinquishing her hands quite yet. "Hmmm?"

"If you don't take the kettle off, I will."


	2. Years of love have been forgot

**This prompt was definitely not fluffy romance, but still maintains their dynamic  
**

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The blood pounded in Christine's ears. Everything was happening too quickly and had become a blur. Sweat - or was it blood - stung her eyes, mixing with the grime that had smeared over her entire body.

Erik was spouting off nonsense about insects, the likes of which she had no idea of what he was speaking. She was dizzy with fear and from the rag soaked in chloroform he had pressed to her face hours before. Her memory was hazy and she just wanted to leave. Her sinuses flooded as a fresh wave of tear streamed down her face, leaving salty, clean streaks on her dirty face. She was drowning in this horror.

Erik was speaking to her once again. She couldn't make out his words, so she simply shook her head and moaned in agony as the throbbing increased tenfold. She began to hit her head once more against the wall, trying desperately to end everything she was feeling.

Christine wanted blissful numbness.

Erik cried out in an angelic wail as she thudded her head over and over again. He rushed to her side, pulling her away so she could no longer injure herself.

His unmasked face, horrid and wretched as ever, grimaced in a sincere look of concern. Christine screamed and flailed, lashing out as hard as she could against his skeletal frame to get away from his embrace.

"No more of this, Christine. Erik cannot have you hurting yourself. Now is not the time for your demise!" He declared, sounding more and more frantic as she tried to pry herself from his clutches.

"NO!" She screamed. He visibly winced, whether it was her dissent against him or the carelessness she had in regard to her voice at the moment, she was not certain. Christine wanted to fly away as expediently as she could.

Hadn't Erik often referred to her as a songbird?

She wept and lunged back to her saving grace, the only escape she could see, suicide.

However, Erik clutched at her more tightly, despite her volatile protests. "Christine, please!" Erik moaned. He grasped her shoulders fiercely and slightly shook her, to demand that she look upon his face and earnestness. "You must compose yourself. You are not allowed to die presently." A shadow of malice flickered on his features, "no-" he said, although not entirely to Christine. Her crying stifled down into silent tears steadily streaming down her face with only the occasional sniffle, "-that comes later. All of Paris shall know it," his voice rumbled and Christine shudder under its power. "11 o'clock, tomorrow night," his features remained dark but his voice suddenly joyful. "That is when we are allowed to die."

Christine released a coughing sob, she tried to suppress, but her despair proved too great. Erik scooped her up in his arms, and her arms and legs resumed their desperate flailing.

"UnHAND me!" She screeched, squirming and hitting him as best as she could muster, her body feeling heavy and arms leadened in misery.

Erik seemed unfazed by her blows. Instead, he placed her as gently as he could on the bed - _her_ bed - his knee pressed against her chest holding her down.

Christine trembled and whimpered, terrified of her comprised situation. Erik was being highly erratic and she had no conceivable idea what his next course of action would be. Would this be his breaking point?

Erik busied himself with something she could not see, and this time her cries were higher pitched and laced with pure unadulterated terror. Erik immediately ceased his actions, releasing his hold from her, and instead cupped her cheeks.

"Christine!" He begged, "why do you cry so?"

"You're going to- you're going to-!" She couldn't bring herself to utter what she knew Erik was planning to do. Thrown onto a soft bed, being held down, the one thing she thought Erik would never do-

Erik's eyes widened in understanding and he gasped, taking a step back away from Christine as she wept openly and defeated.

"I would NEVER!" He cried with her, moaning and lamenting. "Christine, all I wish is for you to love me! Love me for myself! Can't you see, my love?" He held her face to look at him once more, "I have gone mad with love for you. I could be as gentle as a lamb if all you were to do was to love me!"

Christine refused to look at him any longer and she shook her head. He took the opportunity of her refusal to see what he was doing and bound her ankles together and then her wrists.

"Erik, I HATE you!" She declared. He nodded as he tightened her bindings. "Erik hates himself as well," he told her sullenly. "The world hates Erik. This is not new information to me."

"All my life, I have been told to be kind, to find love in all things. Never to show or express hate to anyone because I do not know their circumstances," Christine's voice surprised even herself in how authoritative it sounded, "Because of the love I have known, despite everything that has transpired, I show kindness. But now! Years of love have been forgot in the hatred of a minute! I HATE YOU!"

Her gaze pierced Erik straight through him. Now it was he who could not look directly at her. He hung his head in shame and nodded. "So be it," he told her angrily. "The grasshopper will hop jolly high tomorrow night. I ask you one more time, be my wife, my real living bride, Christine. Yes or no. If your answer is no, everyone will be dead and _buried._ "

He turned on his heel and left her to weep.


	3. Hold me just a little longer

**Some more Leroux-based angst, because who doesn't love that?**

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Erik stared wide-eyed at Christine, his blood pounding in his ears (or was that the rush of water in the cellar?), his mouth slightly agape. She was a heap on the ground, forehead smeared with blood and grime, her tears leaving clean streaks down her face.

"I have turned the scorpion…" she repeated, half to herself, half to the looming figure before her.

Panting heavily as the room swirled around him with the weight of what she had done, Erik dropped to his knees. Unyielding anger had blinded him for the past few days, and now as he stared at Christine, he finally saw the immensity of the pain he had caused. He raised his hands to his face, seeing the symbolic blood on them, tears streaming heavily down his face.

"Chr-Christine…" his voice cracked, reaching out to her. She raised herself up to her unstable feet and feebly approached him.

"Erik," she whispered on a shaky breath. He gazed up at her full of awe. The dim light provided a glow around her, illuminating her halo of pale hair. She placed a hand on his shoulder to support her wobbly knees, and her small gesture made Erik crumble onto himself. His body was wracked with sobs. He clutched at the hem of her skirts and wailed like an infant seeking comfort as all his terrible deeds to his angel came crashing down on him. Removed from her support, Christine lowered herself down, grasping at Erik's shoulders. He groveled before her, words of praise falling from his lips like his tears. Christine embraced his hunched back tightly, opening weeping along with him.

Erik straightened up, searching her red and swollen eyes for any deception, but all he found there was the sorrowful truth. She had pledged to marry him, not to kill them both, as his real, living bride.

"May I…?" Erik began to ask, unsure if the situation called for it, but longing to provide her comfort in the form of a kiss.

As though she knew his intention, she bowed her head before him, offering her sore and bloody head, as more tears sparkled down.

Erik brushed his thin lips against her forehead, not applying too much pressure to the blossoming bruise from her suicidal attentions. He choked on a sob and bowed before her once again, pressing his face against her waist as he embraced her in agony. She was real, she was here, and she agreed to be his. She wanted him to be hers.

"You are too good to your horrible Erik," he sobbed. He felt wetness on the back of his ears, as he realized, she too continued to cry over them. He threw off his mask in a fit of desperation, gazing back up at this magnificent angel of whom he plucked the wings, crying for him, crying for his soul. He bathed in the tears she provided, mingling with his own.

Christine nodded, either in acknowledgment or agreeing with him, Erik couldn't tell, but he no longer cared.

They separated for a moment, arms hanging awkwardly at their sides. Erik was torn how to proceed, eyes darting around, as the rest of the world came swimming back to his senses. He overheard the muffled cries of help and the rushing sounds of water, purposefully ignoring them. Christine curled up against him, her head resting against his bony chest. Erik gulped, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her. She shook with silent tears this time, unable to make another sound.

"I should probably save that boy of yours," her murmured into her mound of hair, inhaling deeply her scent. Already the earthy smell hung on her, tainting her with his mark.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice to hoarse to speak any louder, "but first… just… hold me a little longer."

Erik nodded into her hair, squeezing her a little more in his skeletal embrace, as the two fallen angels tried to pick up the pieces of their ruined wings.


	4. You're really soft

This was the second time Christine had come down deep into the cellars of the Opera House. She couldn't quite remember the first time. No, that time was surreal, remembering it was remembering a long ago dream that one visits many times; each slightly different from the last, but with a lingering familiarity that one can't quite place.

This was more steadfast and concrete. No hypnotism led to her arrival here, no half-truths. She was perched on the sofa in the sitting room, the air sparking with tension like an oncoming storm.

But why?

She couldn't quite place it. Maybe since her imagined Angel of Music was a flesh and blood man everything had changed. Maybe because their current circumstances were just so… _bizarre_ , she didn't know what to expect.

Her fingers picked at the seam of the couch cushion, feeling the bumpy hem against the embroidered upholstery. Would Erik be in a foul mood, or had his disposition lightened since their last… debilitating encounter? She could not handle him screaming again; it was an awful sight, his ghastly visage wailing in a torment she couldn't fathom; both agony and anger, directed at her.

Christine gave a small gasp as she realized her fingers were manipulating a downy cotton in the stead of the courser upholstery. She looked down at the small hole she had picked unthinkingly. She fluffed her petticoats to cover the imperfection and smoothed her skirts down just as Erik returned to the sitting room, tea tray in hand.

She swallowed her nerves and offered him a small smile that did not reflect how she was truly feeling. She felt a stab of envy that he could hide so easily with his mask. He mercifully wore his white face-mask which was far less intimidating to her than his entirely black one. His eyes seemed more expressive. Perhaps the sockets of the mask where wider?

He set the tray down on the table in front of Christine, adjusting it ever so slightly. He sat on the opposite end in an armchair that did not quite match the rest of the furniture. Christine glanced around, trying to avoid Erik's gaze, as he poured her tea silently.

As she looked at anything but him, she noticed something so quaintly peculiar: none of his furniture properly matched. Oh, certainly there was similar styling, but they were rather old fashioned and the mismatch seemed _endearing._

That was the peculiarity above all else that unsettled her: Erik's normalcy.

"Is something the matter?"

"No!" Christine was caught quite off guard as Erik broke the silence. She had visions of monsters in dank, cold cavernous tombs or among the catacombs with skeletons as housemates and decor. Terrifying spectral and toothsome creatures that craved blood and flesh living on steep mountaintops or deep down to drag victims to the depths. Erik had fit some macabre expectations of her wildest stories, and yet, diminished all of the fancifulness. She shook her head gently to shake those notions from her mind. "I was just thinking… how _cozy_ your home is."

Erik's mask provided no change of emotion, even if he had one. His posture maintained its rigidity. His long fingers slipped into the teapot's handle carefully -' _it even has a lace cozy'_ and poured the liquid into Christine's waiting cup. When he didn't respond, she felt the need to elaborate in case he took her words as an insult.

"I mean to say, that is, I would not have assumed lace and florals to be your in your taste, nor pastels," she stumbled trying to find the words without giving insult to what was surely an injury she had provided. Blush crept along her face as she realized her honesty was fairly insulting, or could be taken as such. She did not know what sort of temperament Erik held, if he would even consider such remarks to be course and inappropriate. Or even worse, what his reaction would be.

Erik continued his measured silence as he poured himself a cup of the steaming tea.

"Everything here was once my Mother's," he said, matter-of-fact, "I suppose I never thought of redecorating. It just seemed more convenient this way."

Christine released her breath in slight relief. "It does seem a little old fashioned," she commented lightly, but stricken how brazen her words were. She raised her cup with its saucer to occupy her mouth so she wouldn't embarrass herself further.

Erik did not move to drink his tea. He sat, straight-backed, hands on his knees, staring at Christine. "Indeed."

Christine sank deeper against the sofa, clutching the saucer and cup with her hands. Guilt stabbed at her. Why did she have these intrusive thoughts about Erik? He was just a normal man, after all. No, nothing about Erik was normal. _They were 5 stories underneath an opera house for God's sake_.

She sipped her tea, only to find it still too hot. She held it to her lips, blowing profusely on the steam that drifted towards her. The coolness of his gaze was piercing, and she felt terribly childish. His penetrating eyes were unyielding in their judgement and she hastily placed her cup back on her saucer the on the table with a small _clink_. She cleared her throat and looked to the fireplace, flickering with warmth.

"And what would you think my fashioned style would be?"

The Voice returned and Christine's shoulders eased down into a more relaxed state. Erik's Voice curled around her and the dancing fire provided a soothing distraction.

"It is difficult to say," Christine said softly, her voice leaving her body without her realizing it. She was captivated by the emergence of the Voice as well as the fire. She could see shapes emerging from the flames; shapes that merged into forms as they licked against the wood and brick of the fireplace.

Erik brought his teacup to his mask, carefully tilting it up to take a sip of the darkly steeped liquid. Despite his mouth being occupied, his voice still murmured in her ear. "You have more of a vibrant imagination than that. Tell me, Christine, how did you originally imagine my home?"

The fire's glow along with Erik's soothing voice entranced Christine, the light reflecting in her blue eyes. As the fire flickered, the shapes turned into a lord and lady, bowing before each other and dancing around the charring wood. Wisps of smoke flowed off of them as they began their promenade. They swirled in the warm haze, casting their spell over Christine.

"Heaven," Christine said, barely above a whisper, "white marble and gilded edges, with puffy white clouds all around," she sank deeper into the folds of the sofa, warm contentment spreading over her body. Something in her voice felt like something was left unsaid.

"And then-?" Erik leaned closer to her, his hands grasping his knees, his body rigid and demanding. She didn't notice, her gaze never faltering from the fire. A particularly large flame licked towards her. She saw _Jörmungandr_ , the serpent of _Midgard_ , break free from its tail and swallowed the dancing couple.

" _Hel_ , A tomb," she mumbled, "or a cave perhaps." The fire hummed and crackled as it began devouring itself. "Lots of black, and bats…. And spiders and skulls-" she gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth as she realized what she said. Christine looked to Erik fearfully, afraid of how he would react with his Death's head. His grip on his knees released and he sat quietly in his seat.

"E-erik, I didn't mean that, you know I didn't, it just slipped out, I don't know what had come over me-" Christine stammered, trying to rectify the situation.

To her shock, Erik simply began to laugh.

His laugh began slow and quiet, sending chills down her spine, until it escalated to where he was almost yelling. Christine nervously laughed along, casting a sideways glance over to the front door of his house. A long, gloved finger slipped behind his mask and wiped a tear from his eye.

"You are far more astute than most people give you credit for, my dear," Erik replied coolly, unfurling to his full height. Christine clutched at the couch and tried to swallow her fear when he approached her.

Erik uncurled his gloved hand to her, and she wearily took it, as he helped her to her feet. Her legs did not seem to want to work, preferring to stay stationary, as Erik lead her to an area she dared not spy: his room.

"Erik, please, I'm sorry, I did not mean anything by it-" her voice quavered as he stood behind her, hands on her shoulders as he propelled her forward.

"Tut, tut my dear!" He exclaimed, "Erik knows how curious you women are!" They stood at the threshold of his room and he loomed from behind her, his hand grasping hers to make her open the door. "We wouldn't want to have another experience like last time, do we?" A touch of sinister malice dripped from his voice. Christine stood helplessly, feeling like a doll as he controlled her arm. She whimpered in response.

"No!" He answered for her, "Erik will not have that! His Christine wept such horrid tears, that Erik will show her instead!" He pressed his hand against hers on the handle, the leather feeling no longer smooth, but unyielding and false. Her hung limply and she shook her head.

"No, no, please Erik, I don't want this I-"

He sneered at her pleas and flung the door open with a triumphant flourish. She shut her eyes and bumped against his bony chest. "I'm sorry Erik, I didn't mean to-"

"So much of the world ' _never meant to-'_ " he sneered. He gripped her harshly, unable to relish the fact she was trying to seek comfort against him in a minimal way. He spun her back around to face her fate and shoved her forward.

Christine gasped, clutching her arms around her chest, terrified of what Erik might do now that they were in his room. She could never assume his underlying intentions. He strode in past her, the entirety of his bedroom shrouded in shadows, as he moved toward a wall to illuminate the gas lamp.

Harsh, choking sobs spilled out from Christine as she tried to hold them back, when she felt the glow of the lamp. She opened her eyes to find continued blackness. Her eyes had to adjust that, no, the lights were on, just everything was black or a deep crimson. Curtains draped around the entirety of the room. The canopy made it feel very intimate enclosed, but entirely luxurious. Bedside tables were intricately carved in a black wood that Christine could not place, but she did see images of woven spiders and bones. She swallowed her fear as she took tentative steps inward, in awe at the splendor of Erik's room. A large armoire, no doubt holding his variety of suits, had a death's head with angel rings jutting out tastefully. Her heart skipped a beat as the detailing of the macabre were at every turn.

Erik stood in the door-frame, his shadow spilling into the room, as he watched her reaction. She ventured forth, inspecting all the intricacies that either took an extraordinarily large amount of work or payment for such creations.

An organ was situated against a wall, with depictions of Hell and demons at its base. Christine even spied a three-headed dog with victims of the Underworld in its biting jaws while swirls of fire licked at skeletons.

Her breaths came out in harsh pants. Christine did have a fascination with the macabre, and she was torn between horror and admiration. One thing she was curious about, where was Erik's bed?

She moved towards the middle of the room, where it should have been, to find something hidden with blankets and cloth. She took one corner of the dark satin - some of the finest she had ever felt- and stripped it away from what it was hiding. It slithered away onto the floor as she gasped in shock.

A coffin, cold and foreboding, lay before her, raised on a platform to present itself as a horrific imitation of a bed. Its wood was matte black, the lid raised to reveal its satin cushion interior, which all things considered looked rather full and soft. It was creased and worn, showing signs of use, only able to fit one body.

Christine's eyes rolled instantly to the back of her head as blackness consumed her vision. She crumpled down as her legs gave way, and Erik instantly caught her as she fainted.

Erik's temper had instantly cooled as he held the lifeless Christine in his arms.

"Foolish child," he murmured, his heart aching as he considered he had done this to her. Her pale skin was now stark white, her lips even losing their rosy hue. He scooped her up in his arms, carrying her over to her own private room.

"This is why you must never pry into Erik's horrid life," he murmured softly to her as he brushed against the button to open her door and slid inside. "It is too gruesome for you. You deserve sweetness, kindness and-" he maneuvered her in his arms as he pulled back the downy covers of her pastel bedding, "everything I cannot give you…" He delicately placed her down on her bed, removing her shoes very carefully so not to disturb her. He covered her unconscious body with blankets and leaned in to kiss her head softly. Before his lips could make their mark, he stopped himself. "I will try, Christine," he vowed to her sleeping form, "I will move heaven and earth to try and be the man you deserve. You are so gentle, so kind, it makes me want to be a better man, to be a proper suitor for one such as yourself." He straightened up, knowing he could not kiss her, not like this, but instead brushed a delicate golden curl away from her face. Even through his gloved hands, he sighed.

"You are really soft."


	5. soft part 2: I dreamt about you

**This is a continuation from the last chapter. My prompts tend to stand alone, but sometimes they continue!**

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Christine Daae had mixed feelings about the dark and the unseen creatures that went 'bump' in the night. On the one hand, it filled her with dread and uncertainty, anything could be lurking to spring an attack. On the other, she was drawn to them with macabre fascination.

She once spied a rat, common in the streets of Paris, dead on the side of a dirt road. She screamed when she saw the carcass, ribs partially exposed with red, stringy flesh. Its mouth hung open in a surprised grimace, with white, wriggling maggots feasting on the body from the inside out. She clung to her father's leg, clutching his pants and clenching her eyes to shield herself away from the corpse. He gave her a soothing stroke of her hair and lightly patted her head.

"Oh Christine," he told her in his accented French, "do not look at the poor wretch. It cannot harm you now."

She couldn't help herself and peeked from behind his legs with morbid curiosity. She stared at the filmy eyes, clouded and unseeing. Christine crept closer to it, away from her father as he continued their trek down the road. She crouched low to inspect it. Her small hands grabbed a nearby stick and delicately prodded the body. It shifted slightly under her ministrations, scattering some beetles than had taken refuge in the cavity. She shrieked again, jumping away and following her father.

They had come back some weeks later, crossing the same path, and she looked around for any sign of the rat. She waded through the tall grasses, turned golden yellow from the sun. There she spied the remaining shell of fur that had sloughed off the long forgotten body. All that remained were a scattering of bones. Christine brushed her fingertips against the soft fur, in silent awe that was once a living creature now fell to a small pile of bones and a smattering of hair. Her father beckoned her to his side once again, and she scurried back to her feet, grabbing a the tiny skull and a rogue limb bone while shoving them into the hidden pocket within her petticoat.

She would continue to hoard little trinkets that she would find on their travels: a snake's discarded skin, egg shells as blue where the sky meets the sea, a delicate butterfly that fluttered to the ground and never rose again, but her favorite pieces were the bits of bones she would uncover. Papa would only allow her to keep them if they were sun-bleached and dry. Any remaining yellow or grease that would linger on her fingers, he would make her toss it away.

Christine clung to those bones and the stories Papa told her; of giant trolls being vanquished by Thor, of Hela sitting on a throne of skulls but having a welcoming embrace to any who entered her domain. She would often sneak up on her father and leap onto his back with a battle cry of, "YARGH It's me, Loki!" and pretend to stab her Thor-Father. He would laugh and scoop her back into his arms, collapsing to the ground as she vanquished him.

Christine thought about her fascination with monsters, skeletons, and goblins when she slipped into the darkness. It seemed to always call her, but truly, it was the unknown that terrified her to her core. What would happen if she found herself like that rat? What would happen if she was dragged down into the watery depths by the alluring song of a nøkken?

She had fainted, spilling into the arms of someone whom she could not assume was fully human. Did Erik's simple existence truly prove that the monsters of legend existed?

She groaned, her eyelashes fluttering as her vision came swimming back to her, breaching the surface of the darkness that had consumed her. Mumbled words, too far away to be understood, buzzed in her head and brought her back to consciousness. Erik's back was turned to her as he was exiting the Louis-Philippe room, something he had been starting to call hers.

She remained silent, not daring to breathe as he excused himself, hoping he remained unaware to her conscious state. The invisible door clicked shut, and she sighed out her relief. She sat herself upright, slowly, taking her time, to try and figure out how much time had passed from the last time she was standing up. A bedside clock ticked away, showing only a few minutes had been lost. She eased herself against the bed frame, taking slow, steady breaths. Christine did not want to repeat that awful act again.

A glass of water was placed thoughtfully beside her table, and her lips made a silent "oh" shape. Not that she had a habit of fainting, but the consideration Erik had in providing her comfort or whims was… encouraging.

Maybe he wasn't a complete monster.

She drank the mineral-tasting water greedily, pausing only to wipe her lips when she had her fill. A sparse amount remained, and she placed it back on the table.

Finding it in her better judgment to do so, Christine went about the task of removing her corset. She was not planning on leaving any time soon, and it seemed like the most appropriate thing to do, given the circumstances. She paused unbuttoning her blouse. Would it behoove her to do this or would it be such scandalous impropriety to remove one's undergarments while residing in the abode of a man whom she was not married to?

Her fingers began the nimble meticulous unbuttoning of her blouse, starting from her neck and all the way down, hidden beneath her skirts. She unfastened the hook in the back of her skirt, and the material pooled around her as she made quick work of her clothes. She tossed them on the ground, wiggling out of her skirt and discarding it along with her blouse.

That's when she noticed her feet. Her stockings remained on her person, but her shoes had been removed. A quick glance over the bed showed Christine that they were placed beside her bed, waiting for her feet to slip back inside. A shiver-of revulsion? She wasn't quite sure- ran down her spine as she imagine Erik touching her.

Christine inhaled deeply to reason with herself. It was nothing untoward of him, it was for her comfort. He had not taken any liberties while she had been indisposed.

"One must consider practicality," she murmured to herself, agreeing that although unfortunate, Erik still had not proved himself ungentlemanly toward her.

Christine leaned forward on her bed as her hands reached behind her, pawing at the strings of her corset to find the knotted ends. With the bow in her grasp, she unbound and unthreaded herself from the constricting corset. Her sigh of relief carried a soft moan of gratitude as she unhooked the bars in the front and completely removed the garment. It also accompanied the other pieces on the floor. She tugged at her chemise, still wrinkled in its own folds from the corset, rubbing her hand slightly over her skin. Some pieces of flesh were still sore from where her shaped was molded to fit the piece better, and the attention provided soothing relief.

One day, Christine hoped, that it would be a lover's hand that would soothe her skin, flushed pink from the indents of her clothes.

A wicked smile spread on her lips as she thought about Erik seeing her in only her chemise and bloomers.

"Then he would be the one fainting! See how he would like it…"

She maneuvered herself off of the bed, putting her feet tentatively down on the carpeted floor and testing her weight. Her head seemed to have righted itself, she no longer felt dizzy, but was cautious nonetheless.

Feeling confident that she would not faint or collapse again, Christine slipped on her dressing gown over her chemise, tying the knot securely around her waist. She preened herself in the only mirror provided in Erik's house. Her lips were not their usual hue, but slightly chalky, which wasn't surprising given the circumstances. Her fingers pressed themselves against her cheeks, trying to warm them back up with life. She looked like a ghost of herself, she decided, but at least the dressing gown made her feel elegant.

This dressing gown in particular was her favorite; lovely brocade detailing with piles of soft lace cascading around the edgings with waterfalls of ruffles. It was completely extravagant for a lounge piece, something she would not have necessarily chosen for herself. She had just found it one day in her dressing room with her name on it.

She paused fluffing her already bushy curls when the realization hit her.

"This must be a gift from Erik…" she breathed. One more thing she had unknowingly accepted from him. She tried to ignore the stone in her stomach. Did he presume anything of her if she had - albeit ignorantly- agreed to such presents? Did he have his own expectations?

Christine unconsciously made her bow even tighter around her form, to ensure nothing would slip out of her robe. She swallowed her fear and spoke directly to the Christine in the mirror.

"Erik would not do that," she told herself firmly. "He has been nothing but kind…" she frowned and hesitated, "-to me." She no longer looked herself in the eye. "...until I ignored his wishes and saw his face…"

She turned away from the mirror, ashamed of what she saw there. "But-" she turned to face herself again, "-he was the one who began this whole charade in the first place! He deceived me! He-!"

Christine clapped her hand to her mouth as she realized she was speaking quite loudly that Erik could hear. She paused to listen to the house, to hear if Erik was approaching or if he was elsewhere.

Of course, silent as a ghost.

She glanced over at the clock once again. The hands ticked away, showing it was nearly midnight. Or was it almost noon? Christine was always so frustrated with the passage of time down beneath the opera.

No matter, she could use the excuse of needing more water if she saw Erik.

But what if he was still in one of his moods?

Christine thought better than venturing forth in his house, and decided to curl up in bed with a book. He had supplied her with numerous volumes of different books he thought she may be agreeable to. She turned the gas lamp up very slightly, to illuminate the room a little more, but not too much to raise suspicion from her keeper.

She chose a book at random and propped herself up with more pillows and began to read.

The steady ticking of the clock strummed the hours by as Christine paid partial attention to the stories she was reading. She rubbed her eyes out of habit, rather than any actually tiredness she felt. These Greek mythologies bored her. "Who would ever be convinced to love a swan?" She grumbled, yearning for more adventure stories like her Nordic myths gave her. She thumbed through the pages falling back on the one story that captured her attention; the romance of Eros and Psyche.

Christine was enraptured by the story: a beautiful princess whisked off by the wind to a mysterious palace. A lover whom she couldn't see, but doted on her every whim. Her stomach churned with sickening familiarity when Psyche spied her sleeping husband Eros and fell even more in love with him, but burned him awake with molten wax dripping from her candle and her betrayal.

She closed the book, not finishing the fable. It mirrored her relationship with Erik too much for comfort.

"I suppose," she slowly said to herself, "I felt a…" she hesitated as she glanced up at her reflection from across the room, "fondness for my Angel," she could not deny that, but love was too great of a word for her to admit.

A heavy sigh left her breast and she slipped down under the sheets to try and dream the rest of the hours away. A soft melody reached her through the door, and it was easy to fall into sleep's embrace. A single thought played into her mind if, like Eros, Erik was revealed to be handsome?

Would things be different between them?

Christine awoke with a start, the gaslamp still glowing by her bedside. She scolded herself for foolishly slumbering with the light on. She rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, grumbling. She only napped. It was around 2 o'clock, but that held no meaning for her now. What entranced her was the soft music still playing. She was lured from her room, fingers brushing against the wall to open her door, and followed the sounds as if they were an enticing smell.

The music was light, something that reminded her of a sweet, spring day with childhood worries. Something surprising coming from Erik.

He was seated at his piano, rather than his organ, his fingers sweeping over the keys easily, but his eyes were glazed over, as if he did not see the instrument he was manipulating. Music came so naturally to him, Christine wouldn't be surprised if it was just an extension of his person.

She stood in the doorway, listening to him play, not daring to interrupt.

Only when he finished the piece, did he acknowledge her, but refused to look at her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her so softly, it was almost a whisper.

"Much better," she said, trying to keep the conversation light, trying to avoid speaking about their last interaction. "I fell asleep. Some rest proved to serve me well."

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the ivory keys. He bounced a finger on one key like a child.

Christine took a cautious step toward Erik, her hands clasped together. "Have you gotten any rest?"

Erik shook his head, moving to face her, but still his eyes were pointed downward. "I do not require much sleep, Christine. Not when the music calls to me."

Christine took a leap of faith, thinking of the stories she read earlier. Perhaps their story could be different if she tried to trust him a little more. She pursed her lips and took a leap.

"I dreamt about you," she told him. It was a half-truth, hoping he would not ask her to elaborate on the fact she dreamt more about corpses because of their last interaction.

"How dreadful," Erik said without missing a beat. He busied himself by closing the case over the piano keys to protect them. "Nightmares are awful things."

"It wasn't-!" Christine lurched towards Erik, but slumped back. "It was not a nightmare," she mumbled, now avoiding his eyes as he stared incredulously at her.

"I can assure you, any dream that involved me would be considered a nightmare."

Christine sighed in exasperation. This was not going how she had hoped. "It was not a nightmare, it was just a surreal dream. Where it seems like reality but things are skewed ever so slightly. Not bad, not necessarily good. Just… dreamlike," she attempted to elaborate.

"I only have nightmares," Erik whispered quietly, "but then," he spoke a little more assertively, "my entire existence has been a nightmare."

Christine found herself standing right beside Erik. She hadn't noticed her slow approach. "Erik…" Her eyebrows were knitted with concern and her inability to figure out how to provide him comfort.

He shook his head and waved her away. "It is completely unremarkable. Simply one of the reasons I require little sleep."

"When have you slept last?"

"Christine…" Erik's tone gave warning.

"Erik," she countered.

"You know how I feel about curious women," he started.

"-And you know how I feel about when you do not elaborate and give sweeping generalizations about women!" She raised a hand, as if to place it on his shoulder to provide comfort, but thought better of it and clasped it back with her other hand. "I believe some rest might provide you," she searched for the right phrasing, "a more agreeable countenance." Wait, no, that terrible said, "What I mean to say is, perhaps, if you feel up to it, we could… take a walk?"

Erik sat perfectly still, staring intently at the piano. Christine swallowed and her eyes darted around, worrying that she said the wrong thing.

"Only if you want to!" She said quickly. "If you feel socially exhausted by my presence or if it is repellent to you to be seen in public with me, I can understand if-"

"Yes," Erik breathed, looking back up at Christine. His yellow eyes wide with wonder, but ready to shrink away. She was reminded of the tender eagerness of a child. In an instant, a switch seemed to flip, and he stood up with an air of authority. "However, I do not require rest. As soon as you dress yourself for such an excursion, then we will be on your way."

"If you rest," Christine said cautiously, fearing to press the wrong button, "then the park would be empty. It would either be near sunset or sunrise, so we could have more solitude."

Erik unexpectedly nodded. "An astute observation, Christine. Very well. I will seclude myself with a book and then we shall adjourn-"

"Erik, you need sleep."

"Christine."

"Erik."

He threw his hands up in the air. "Fine!" He barked. He began to stride past Christine in determined acquiescence despite his reluctance, but then he slowly turned back to her.

"May I have one request?" He suddenly looked sheepish and small.

"That… depends on what the request is," Christine told him slowly.

He swallowed, interested in his shoes. "Will you sing to me? To help me fall asleep? Perhaps… it will stave off the nightmares."

Christine's lips parted in surprise. "Yes," she heard herself saying, as though detached from her own voice. "Of course," she said with more insistence. "You frequently do it for me. I don't see why not."

Erik's mask revealed a small smile and he nodded.

"Come then, let us away."


	6. On a Scar

Everyday was a small progression of baby steps toward normalcy. At first, it was walking on eggshells for the both of them, unsure how to proceed with the companionship they once had. As more time passed, their footing became sturdier and more substantial until it felt natural once again.

Christine still had her apartment with Madame Valerius. She still sang in the opera, sometimes with choral roles, sometimes with a spotlight on her. More importantly, she continued her lessons with Erik. Wednesdays were for extra practice after rehearsals. Fridays were for congenial visitations that served no immediate purpose. Sundays, just maybe, Sundays were for casual outings.

Erik looked eagerly for Sundays, but inevitably dreading them. He hadn't the fortitude to quite make it outside in the daylight, even if he had a lovely companion by his side.

One day at a time.

He paused in playing the concerto on the piano momentarily, his stomach constricting just even thinking about his request to go to the park this coming Sunday.

Christine was lounging quite comfortably in a loveseat, moved into the music room for this form of cohabitation. Her legs draped over one of the arms of the chair as the other cradled her head. She did not have to sit up like a lady in Erik's presence, and it felt much more freeing. She did not push for conversation when she knew Erik was feeling uneasy and restless. On these Friday nights, Christine simply did as she chose, as did Erik, but having her near him made him feel like he was being more social without the customs that social norms dictate. Her ankles crossed, book propped in her lap as she toyed with a strand of curls as she idly read.

However, when the flow of music came to a quiet end, her attention was pulled away and onto Erik. She didn't say anything, waiting for him to comment. She watched him expectantly.

Erik inhaled as though he was about to say something, but it proved to be fruitless. His focus was securely back on the piano and poised his hands to begin again.

Christine turned on her side so she face him.

"Why do you play with gloves on?"

"Out of habit, chiefly." He stretched his fingers in the black leather.

"I would find it an irritating constriction. Why don't you remove them?"

Erik looked as though he was going to rebuff her suggestion, but he carefully plucked at the tips of each finger, one at a time. Christine watched his long fingers work with intent, smoothly removing the black leather from one hand and then the next. Even removing an article of clothing was a calculated effort and flowed with a grace that one would not imagine utilizing in such a simple task.

Erik was anything but a simple man.

Christine rose and seated herself beside Erik on the piano bench. He noticeably gulped, but slid down to allow her and her full skirts more room.

"Are you going to keep playing or are you going to ask me whatever it is you're thinking about?"

"Ah, yes…" Erik flexed his fingers, poised over the keys, but held them still. How he could refrain from movement in that frightful stillness was unfathomable, and yet, he did. He turned away from Christine and mumbled something under his breath.

"Erik, I cannot hear you. You're throwing your voice across the room too softly." Christine placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to urge him to turn around to face her. He did not move.

"I apologize," his voice was a smooth rumble in her ear, despite him facing away. "I merely inquired if you would be so kind to accompany me on a stroll through the park gardens this Sunday."

A slight shiver rippled through Christine. His voice could glide over her like warm oil, just as it did now. Her hand withdrew from Erik and clenched to her chest as she suppressed the sensation. She nodded her response. It was only then did the realization strike her that Erik could not see her response.

"Yes!" She said a little too loudly. Erik turned to her in surprise, his eyes wide in clear shock. She cleared her throat with a blush blossoming on her cheeks and gave him an apologetic smile. "What I mean to say, I would be happy to accompany you through the park, Erik. That sounds lovely."

Erik stared incredulously at her for a moment, and the way his eyes crinkled told Christine he was giving her a genuine smile.

Christine's own smile grew and she avoided his gaze, looking sheepishly down at her hands and his own. That's when she noticed something peculiar.

"Oh! Erik! Your hands!"

The clenched into fists instinctively and brought them close to his body. "What about them," he asked defensively.

She took them in her own and inspected them more carefully. Shiny and white scars peppered his hands with crinkled swirls that mimic veins. She traced the pathways gently with her thumb, following the river of scarring from his palm to the back of his hand and down his wrists. He obediently rotated his hands as she inspected them, caught off guard in a gentle haze. Her exploration only stopped when his cuffs obstructed her view.

"No more wandering eyes, little dove." Erik's voice was tender, but edged with a warning. Christine kept her gentle hold on his hands, easing her fingers along them, mimicking the patterns with her touch.

"What happened, Erik?"

He tried to take his hands back, but he soft touch was intoxicating, as harmless as it was. It was a half-hearted attempt, so she continued to cradle them in her own. "Life, my dear. I have held onto these scars since I was a child."

Her feather touch skated over his palm as though she could read his past exploits as the best fortune teller. He shuddered.

"I'm surprised your hands are so dexterous from the trauma they've endured… And when you were a child… it must have been very painful."

"I have survived worse," he casually remarked, brushing off her sentiments. "It was so long ago, it's hardly of any importance."

"What happened?" Christine insisted. He was tempted to switch to anger, her insatiable curiosity would be the death of him. But he was _trying_ to be better. She was just so innocent, Erik found her compelled to tell her, if at all else to see what she would do if he showed her a small glimpse of the monsters of his past.

"I saw my reflection for the first time. I was so frightened that I shattered the mirror with my hands." He voice was calm and quiet, but very detached. Christine gave a small gasp, her breath caught in her throat as she imagined a tiny, chubby cheeked Erik (did he ever had round cheeks?) sobbing with broken glass embedded in his flesh.

"My mother did little to help. In retrospect, it's amazing I did not receive an infection as a result, but my hands were debilitated for some time. It was hard to maintain an accurate time frame as a child; everything is so much more intense."

"You must have been terribly frightened…" Christine murmured. She brought his hands up closer to her face for closer inspection, her strokes growing repetitive and soothing.

"-Yes," Erik choked out, a wave of emotion overtaking him as he finally felt like someone was listening to his inner child. Scared and hurt, he could finally cry about it and feel some comfort that was never afforded to him. "I was unable to draw or play my violin or piano for weeks. I was in agony both physically and mentally."

Christine brushed her lips over his hands and Erik gasped as tears spilled from his eyes. Kisses peppered over his scars as a gentle balm that soothed his soul more than his battered appendages.

"How ca-" he choked on his emotion, and swallowed his questions. "I thought they were too cold, smelled too much like death." Her old words were thrown back at her, but they weren't accusatory, but painfully curious.

"A moment of ignorance," she whispered above his skin, her hot breath pooling over his nerves like warm water. "I first smelled patchouli at my mother's funeral and I simply associate it with death now." Her eyes flicked up to Erik's a smile coyly emerging, "the fact you have changed your cologne has not gone unnoticed."

Erik barked out an astonished sound, part laughter, part sob. Christine placed his hands on her round cheeks, deliberately brushing past her lips to kiss his palms and wrists. A tremble vibrated from his fingertips through his long digits and crept through the entirety of his body, until he was wracked with tremors. He collapsed against Christine, his hands slipping behind her as claws, to anchor himself to her as he sobbed out his exquisite agony.

Christine gently pat his back with one hand, the other trapped against her side in his clutches. "Erik," she murmured in a gentle tone, as one would do with a wailing child, "it's all right."

He removed himself from her, suddenly chiding himself and mumbled an apology to Christine, something about forgetting himself momentarily. He rummaged through his breast-pocket and withdraw a handkerchief. Erik pivoted on the piano bench away from Christine and hunched his shoulders so she wouldn't be able to witness his actions. It was evident, however, that he had tilted his mask up to dab at his deformity.

Christine was going to voice her objection from his hiding from her, but thought better of it. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps," she said gently, "we could read more stories of Mythologies around the world?" Erik often applied a quick change of subject, and Christine assumed it would do him some good. Her assumption was correct as his mood was significantly lightened. "You never did finish the story of Eros and Psyche. Do they have a happy ending?"

He turned back around to her and cracked his knuckles. "Tut, tut, my dear. Who am I to give away the ending?"


	7. Disposable

"Can I open my eyes yet?"

Christine had the patience of a saint, but all patience comes to an end. Erik waved his hand over her face to be absolutely certain she hadn't faltered and opened her eyes yet. Like a statue, she remained still, though her balance was starting to falter. Standing perfectly straight was surprisingly exhausting!

"Not yet, my dear," he reassured her, his voice moving away from her. He had informed her earlier that he had another present for her. Barring any more lavish gifts of flowers that filled her room, chocolates from far off countries, and teas her poor Swedish tongue had difficulties somersaulting over, she had no idea what was in store for her.

Erik, however, was absolutely giddy.

He inspected the gift once again, a long column standing upright against the wall, draped with a shroud of fine cloth. He lifted the fabric ever so slightly, frowned, and blew warm breath on it. Using his elbow, he shined away any discrepancy he found with it.

"Erik…" Christine's voice was almost an exasperated whine, but she would not stoop that low to be so childish. But she was getting rather annoyed with waiting so long.

"All right!" Erik exclaimed excitedly, his Angel voice booming with grandeur, "Open!"

Christine's eyes fluttered open, instantly confused they were standing in Erik's room. His macabre and grotesque decorations always concerned her and emphasized her crushing feeling of being 5 stories beneath the ground. Erik beamed at her, and with a flourish of his wrist unveiled her present. "Et voila!"

What stood before her was a coffin.

"Magnificent, is it not?" Erik was nearly bouncing with excitement. He ran his long hands over the detailed edging. "Hand carved by the finest whittler I could find. The wood is a rich mahogany imported from-"

He was cut off from explaining further by a soft thump. He whipped around to find Christine crumbled to the floor in a dead faint.

Erik sighed inwardly and scooped her up as he would a child and carried her to the Louis Philippe room.

After a few moments, Christine stirred with a quiet groan, holding her head. Erik was seated beside her bed, at the ready with a glass of cold water and a petite bon-bon. Christine eyed him wearily and took the chocolate and cup from him, drinking deeply the mineral-tasting water.

He nodded to the chocolate in her hand. "And the truffle," he insisted, "you need to stabilize your blood sugar. I swear Christine, it's as if you were in some penny dreadful, fainting about the way you do."

She pursed her lips at this, not without popping the delicate morsel in her mouth first. "If I am to be gifted such macabre presents in such a state, then perhaps I am a Gothic heroine within a penny dreadful!" She snapped back.

Erik's posture became more rigid, more defensive. "It is a practical gift! I am only thinking of your future comfort!""Comfort that is unnecessary because by the time I need it, I'll be DEAD!"

"Oh hardly, Christine!" Erik stood at this point, to emphasize his good intentions. "I find them dreadfully comfortable, if taken certain precautions and measures to ensure comfort! Why I even had yours lined with velvet to -"

Christine gritted her teeth in a growl and stared up at the ceiling, spilling her water glass on the bed as she screamed out her frustration. "Just get me a pine box and be done with it," She hissed, "if you're so eager for my demise!"

"My dear, those are so disposable and you deserve-"

"We're _designed_ to be disposable, Erik!" Angry tears streamed down her face as she whipped to look at him. He took a step back from her, clutching his hands to his chest. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but all that came out were her angry tears. She sobbed into her hands, her knees pulling up to her chest.

"Erik… Erik didn't mean to upset his Christine," he whispered, tentatively approaching her. "Erik thought… that perhaps… this might make Christine happy, to know she was well provided for even in -"

"I do _NOT_ want to think about death anymore, Erik," Christine said with finality. "It has consumed too much of my life." She sniffed, wiping away her messy tears and snot with her forearm.

Erik removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and cautiously, looking for any sign of dissent, seated himself on the bed by Christine. He gently dabbed at her cheeks, wiping away the wetness that smeared on her.

"Erik is-" he cleared his throat, "- _I_ am sorry. It is… difficult to understand what gifts remain in the realm of propriety when all I want to do is give you the world at your feet." He looked at her sorrowfully, even through his mask she could read his expression. In a way, it was endearing.

She nodded, not knowing what to say, and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. Erik stiffened at the immediate contact initiated by Christine, but then relaxed into it as she did not pull away.

Slowly, he put his arm around her and held her.


End file.
